


A Crowded, Hazy Bar

by caixa



Category: Men's Football RPF, Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Bonding, Crossover, Flirting, Hero Worship, Hotel Sex, M/M, Mirror Sex, Sexual Tension, my anniversary fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-17 16:18:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21057332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caixa/pseuds/caixa
Summary: There are star athletes and star athletes.And then there is Zlatan Ibrahimović.--Stanley Cup winner André Burakovsky runs into a fellowMalmöboafter an away game in Los Angeles.





	A Crowded, Hazy Bar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [boatbehind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boatbehind/gifts), [eafay70](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eafay70/gifts).

> I made no promise to write a fic to celebrate my 3-year anniversary as a member of this amazing archive site but I said I might give it a try.  
Thanks to eafay70 for asking what kind of crossover fic I'd write between my two fandoms and to boatbehind for getting excited by one of the ideas that I tossed around to answer that question.  
I wrote this fast to hit the date of the anniversary as stated on my profile, October 16th.
> 
> I am not completely sure if Malmöbo refers to people who are from Malmö but have moved elsewhere but since I found a source that used the expression "En gång Malmöbo, alltid Malmöbo" I dared to use the word here.
> 
> The Washington Capitals beat the Los Angeles Kings on February 18th, 2019 3-2. LA Galaxy were in the middle of a series of preseason showcase games, previous on 16th February, the next coming on 23rd February.
> 
> Title from "Like a Hurricane" by Neil Young.
> 
> Fiction is fiction.
> 
> Enjoy!

André never gets star-struck. Not usually, that is. And this time? There is definitely no reason to.

He is a Stanley Cup winner, right? And they are here, on the American soil. In the US hockey is, hands down, bigger than football. _Soccer_, he's learned to say when he talks out loud, but inside his mind it's still football. _Fotboll._

When André’s fellow Caps take him out after the game against the Los Angeles Kings he knows that in the club he _is_ a star athlete on his own right.

But there are star athletes and star athletes.

The bar they have chosen is either understaffed or then they just don’t serve tables, and André has headed to the bar. It’s crowded, and he gets pushed against the counter, and is about to shout an angry “hey!” as his stomach pushes to the edge, but one glance over his shoulder silences him.

Or maybe what shuts him up before he says anything is the soft, smiling apology.

_Or_ it might be the tall figure uttering the apology, taller than André. Mustache, goatee, ponytail; corners of dark eyes crinkling into friendly laugh lines.

There are star athletes and star athletes.

And then there is Zlatan Ibrahimović.

Who, no kidding, smiles a friendly smile. And, André swears, after a sweeping double-take on André himself repeats his soft-spoken apology.

Not only repeats it. Repeats it _in Swedish_.

André is quite sure that nothing in his face screams _från Sverige_ so there is only one possible explanation for the change of language.

_Zlatan _fucking_ Ibrahimovi__ć _knows who he is.

Zlatan is, on all accounts, the greatest athlete – no, the greatest thing, the greatest _anything – _to ever hail from Malmö, André’s hometown. Yes, it’s one of the biggest cities in Sweden, internationally connected, but… in a way, compared to Zlatan, it is small. As long as André can remember Zlatan has _existed_, been a figure to look up to.

Heck, André has had a poster of him on his wall but that’s something he wants to forget for a moment, for _this _moment. He won’t think of the emotions that rushed through his adolescent body when he looked at the picture of the bronze god from his bed, how his heart fluttered reminiscing the goals he had watched Zlatan score. His thigh flexing for a kick. Stripping off his _gulblå _jersey after a win to swap it with a player of the opposite team – or just to celebrate.

“What are you drinking?” Zlatan asks. In Swedish. “Let me get the next one. For pushing you.”

“No, no problem,” André opposes but regrets it the next moment and resets quickly, flashing a fast smile. “A beer. Thanks.” He scrunches his nose, and Zlatan crowds past him to the bar. The bartender who has ignored André for what has felt like forever magically emerges in front of Zlatan, and there’s a reassuringly cold glass in André’s hand in no time.

Zlatan raises his glass and looks at André over the foam.

“You brought the Stanley Cup home to Malmö. It is a big deal. Good for you.” Zlatan raises his glass. “Congratulations.”

André is close to burst out a surprised cough that would sent beer foam flying to all directions but controls himself at the last moment.

“Thanks.” He raises his glass, reciprocates the eye contact and takes a sip. It leaves a foam mustache above his lip. He wipes it away with is finger and chuckles. Zlatan smiles at the gesture fondly, and André wants to say something.

“I had a mustache too! Why did I wipe it away?”

It’s a fucking dumb line but Zlatan laughs softly. It feels nice, and a long gulp of beer soothes André’s fluttering nerves further. A nice song comes along, and he loosely swings his body to the rhythm until he catches Zlatan watching him.

“You like having fun,” Zlatan says; it isn’t a question, it’s an observation.

“I do,” André replies despite the lack of question. He tilts his head and looks at Zlatan.

“I’m surprised you knew about my Cup Day.”

Zlatan raises his eyebrows and leans back like he was hit with surprise by André’s comment.

“Are you kidding? It was everywhere. It looked _very_ fun.”

André takes a long sip of his beer and blows upwards at an astray curl that tries to hang over into his vision. He’s surprised that Zlatan hasn’t excused himself yet and returned to whatever entourage international footballers have with them in Los Angeles nightclubs. It’s a lot to take in but he’s slowly getting more comfortable with the situation.

“I should have invited you over,” he says. It may be a bit bold because this is the first time ever they have met anywhere and they both know for a fact that no way could André have even dreamed of asking Zlatan Ibrahimović to attend his Day with the Cup party.

Zlatan shakes his head and smirks softly.

“This is fine,” he says. “I’m happy we met now.”

Is there anything that can be said as an answer to _that_? André wouldn’t want to _stare _but he does, up into Zlatan’s eyes, locked in because the footballer isn’t taking his off André’s. The air in the club feels so vibratingly thick and hot that he needs to gulp the rest of his beer down so that he doesn’t break in sweat.

He stands with the empty glass in his hand. Zlatan takes it like it’s the most natural thing to do. André swears that their fingers touch when he does it.

He doesn’t dare to let the word _lingering_ make too many rounds in his mind because it would definitely be too much.

Ibrahimović waves the empty glass towards the direction of the bar and it is replaced with a full one almost instantly, cool from the condensed moisture on the outer surface. He takes a sip himself before he puts the glass in André’s hand, and now it _must_ be deliberate how he doesn’t take his hand off right away. He lets his fingertips stay there, lightly interlaced with André’s, touching enough for the warmth to tingle on André’s skin.

Lars Eller sails in in all his regal blondness. His eyes widen when he notices who André is talking to.

André knows he’s being a little shit here but he won’t make a move to be polite and introduce his Danish teammate and the man who Lars obviously recognizes to each other. He nods at Lars as a sign of having seen him but instead of turning to include him in the circle he steps out of the way to let Eller get to the bar, and keeps on talking to his new friend.

Lars darts a glare at André as he returns from the bar but André chooses to ignore it. Ibrahimović takes a look at the blond over his shoulder but continues talking to André.

It sends a nice jolt up André’s stomach: he likes how Zlatan just dismisses Eller. Maybe he doesn’t recognize him at all but it's sweeter to imagine that he just pretends he doesn't. Like Denmark never existed. It’s just them, two _Malmöbor_ sticking together.

He’s definitely warming up by the minute. It's so nice: just letting his own language roll out of his lips with ease, rest his ears in the speech that sounds like _home_. Almost floating in the cozy bubble of the familiar accent: the softly gurgling R’s, quirky extra diphthongs and melodiously rolling cadences surround his beer-buzzing head like a warm blanket.

The greatest thing, the greatest _anything_ to ever hail from Malmö making him feel comfortable and homely? More likely than you think.

There's a pause in the conversation, how long has it lasted? There is suddenly something charged in the moment of silence. André feels the knuckle side of a finger softly brush the back of his hand. Zlatan is looking at him.

"Maybe we were meant to meet tonight," Zlatan says.

André knows a pick-up line when he hears one. He looks at Zlatan from under his brows, bites his bottom lip between his teeth and lets it slowly free, dragging it out until it's red and puffy.

"What makes you say that?" he asks.

Zlatan rocks slightly on the soles of his shoes, tilts his head and brushes André's shoulder lightly with his hand.

"We're playing pre-season games in Carson City but somehow I wanted to get to the town and go out tonight."

"I'm glad you did," André grins.

"Me too." Zlatan narrows his eyes. "So. What hotel are you staying at?"

André doesn't look over his shoulder to double-check but he is quite sure that Jakub Vrana's jaw drops when they stroll past him as Zlatan leads him towards the exit.

Oshie and Wilson stand nearby but turn soon back to their conversation, not seeming to notice anything unusual.

* * *

Eyes widen at them again in the hotel lobby. Not ones of the professionally discreet staff but a couple of André's teammates.

Nicke and Ovi are sitting by a large fireplace on the side wall of the lobby bar, engaged in what looks like an intimate but civilized moment of cognacs and contemplation. It stops as soon as they turn their heads and notice André - and, apparently, his companion.

Zlatan doesn’t even look their way. His warm presence looms over André’s shoulder as they walk to the elevator that awaits them with open doors.

Once those doors slide shut André barely has time to flash his card to the reader and press the right button before Zlatan crowds him into the back wall of the elevator, against a large mirror. He kisses André without asking for permission and André lets him; the lips are hungry and determined, almost predatory, hands clutching the lapels of André’s jacket, fists pushing into his chest, forcing the back of his head and his shoulder blades roughly against the cool mirror that would get steamy very soon if the elevator didn’t stop on its destined floor.

Zlatan pulls back at the soft lull the elevator stops with, wiping his mustache and beard straight with his fingers and licks his teeth as he turns around to step to the empty hallway. André leads him to his room, grateful for his single room privilege, almost wondering that his hand doesn't tremble when he pushes the key in its slot.

Zlatan kisses him again in the room, cupping the back of his head with both hands. André's had his fair share of playoff beard kisses, and kisses from taller men, but still - this is _different_.

It's not only that Zlatan is older than any player of their team, or any of his NHL hookups. It is, André has to admit, partly because of _who_ he is. Zlatan fucking Ibrahimović not only knows who he is. Zlatan fucking Ibrahimović has flirted with him, very blatantly hit on him.

Zlatan fucking Ibrahimović is shoving his tongue in his mouth and André is loving it and so, so ready for more.

Zlatan makes him walk backwards from the small entrance to inside the room. "Undress," he says by the bed, hands lightly on the sides of André's hips.

André does.

"You?" he asks, naked, dropping down the last garment he had on, a black ankle high sock.

Zlatan strips his shirt slowly, like a slow-motion clip from a post-game situation, baring the tattoos André has seen only in pictures before, he will never tell how many. He toes off his shoes, opens his pants, rolls them down languidly.

Hockey guys are hardly ever such show-offs, so look-at-me-flashy with their trained bodies.

"Will you do as I say?" Zlatan asks, naked in front of André. He can feel the body heat exuding from the skin, the dick almost touching his. Zlatan's fingers play with his curls, tucking them in sweeping brushes behind his ear.

It feels sensual. André barely nods, says "Yes."

The tender brushing fingers snatch a tight grip of his earlobe, twisting it. The hand is steel now, it pushes him down; he has no choice but to get on his knees. A smile bares Zlatan's teeth, he eases grip of André's ear, and strokes it lightly as blood streams prickling back in where the earlobe was just pinched. Zlatan traces his lips with his thumb, the other fingertips resting lightly by his ear.

André parts his lips for the thumb, Zlatan pushes it in his mouth.

"Good," he utters, smiling, when André sucks it.

His mouth is guided to the dick, he knows how to treat it to make it stand hard, extends the loving care to the balls, goes back to sucking the dick until he is stopped.

"Nice mouthwork, Malmö boy," Zlatan says. "I'll never watch you hockey guys playing with your mouthguards the same again."

André licks his lips.

"Happy to hear," he says.

He's happy to have lube and condoms when Zlatan asks for them, happy to show how well he handles stick and rubber that have nothing to do with ice but all to do with him getting fucked soon.

"Put your hands on that desk," Zlatan points at the generic hotel room side table mounted on the wall under a large mirror. "I want you to look at your face when I fuck you."

André obeys, like he would even dream of the opposite, and the greatest _anything_ ever to hail from Malmö is hot flesh inside him, sliding in agonizingly slowly until he begs for harder and faster, thrusting fast after he begs louder. He shuts his eyes to sink in the sheer pleasure but there's a sharp tug in the crown of his hair, reminding him to face the mirror.

Mouth, humid hot breath on his ear in the mirror, the face he'd recognize anywhere but has never seen this close his own, a familiar cocky blink in the dark eyes hazing into glassy, veiled lust.

Hand around his cock, moving fast, the sight in the mirror an unbearable turn-on.

It's not the first time in his life he has come watching Zlatan Ibrahimović make his play but that is something he is never going to tell anyone.

**the end**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a note.  
I value comments and kudos very highly.
> 
> I'm caixxa and badhockeymom on Tumblr.


End file.
